Patience
by EleanorK
Summary: takes place during Season 5, after episode 1


He'd given up on himself, and everyone else, only to be brought back to them. To Beth. To Rick and Michonne. To the whole group. That's why he couldn't believe it was the end at Terminus. He hadn't believed it was the end. He'd been there too much in the last year.

So seeing her across from him that night at the church, he feels a little guilty, for assuming he'd get her back, and a little horrible, for going on without her.

She drinks the wine. She listens to everyone talk. She eats the food. It's more food than they've had in a long time. He's eating faster than he should, stuffing his guts.

But she's not really here. He can feel how she's slipping away from him. He can feel it because he's done the same himself. Pulling away from the camp at the farm. Sleeping in the landing instead of in a cell. Never letting go of Merle's goddamn bike, even though it made no sense, transport for one, two at most.

He finishes his food, wipes his hands on his red handkerchief in his back pocket. He thanks Michonne and Rick and Bob and Sasha for the food. He doesn't bother with Father Gabriel. The man's queer as Christmas and he's not going to bother with him unless it's to watch him close.

When he turns he sees Carol's shadow stepping out the back door.

* * *

><p>"Where are you going?"<p>

"I don't know."

"I do," he says. He reaches toward her hand. "You're running."

"Maybe."

"Goddammit," he says. He yanks her toward him. She gives him a look like, back the fuck off.

"No," he says. "You can't do this shit. You can't."

"You don't get a say in it, Daryl."

"The hell I do." She shakes her head. He lets go of her wrist. She doesn't move back though. He thinks he's going to make her cry. Or maybe she was almost there already? He's not good when it comes to crying. Because it usually knocks the tears loose in himself.

Then Abraham comes by, shouldering his weapon.

"What yall standing around in the dark for? Me and Rosita got watch."

Abraham stares at Carol and she dips her head down and walks back inside. Daryl nods at Abraham and follows her. Thinks he might like the man for the first time then.

* * *

><p>The group is loud up in the church, drinking and talking and being more human than they have in a long time. It's relief, the drunken smiling and laughing. He doesn't begrudge them any of it. Rick holding the sleeping Judith, grinning and looking like he can't believe they're really here.<p>

But Daryl's got his eye on Carol. She's somehow immune to the happiness of the group and he can understand that. A little. But she was the one who's responsible for all this happiness. That part he can see being uncomfortable with, yeah. There's something more, though.

He lets her think he's not paying attention. He swigs wine and eats food and laughs and talks. But he notices when she goes down the stairway alcove beyond the Father's office. There's nothing down there but extra chairs and tables and hymnals in stacks. He grabs his old poncho from Maggie and his crossbow and follows her down. Rick meets his eyes. Daryl nods and Rick nods back, as he kisses sleeping Judith's head.

* * *

><p>She's down there and she's crying and he doesn't want to frighten her but he says her name.<p>

"Yeah," he hears her say. It's dark. He pops on the flashlight on his belt. She's standing there, wiping her face. Fuck.

"Come on," he says, walking toward her. He figures the crying would have happened no matter what, so he needs to get over it. Plus, he's so afraid she'll spook. Run off, or start yelling. He's hoping for the second thing. Yelling he can handle. That's the beginning of the end, when they get angry and blow off the steam. Then the calm usually comes. He'd been hit enough by his daddy and Merle to know that fact.

But if she runs again?

"No," she says. He's just inches from her. Her back's to him. "I don't want to cry in front of you."

"I know," he says. He sets down the crossbow on the table. He doesn't know what to do for a minute. He pauses, trying to work it out.

"Just..." He puts one hand on her shoulder, then the other. Her body stiffens. Shoulders get tighter under his hands.

He's made a mistake and he's sorry. He's so bad at this and he wants to be good at it. He's good at lots of things now. But this thing - reaching out, touching - still is beyond him.

"Just..." he starts. She turns around. Looks up at him. The flashlight makes everything look weird. Her eyelashes are wet points. Her lips tremble a little. She closes her eyes and shakes her head and he can feel it; she wants to run. Her body's tensing, holding its breath.

His hands slide down her back, pull her into his chest. She obeys, then, lets herself be pulled to him. She makes a little sob noise against his heart and everything's tense; she's like a tightening knot.

"Just let me..." he says, pulling her tighter. A palm on her head, smoothing around her hair.

_Just let him_...what? He doesn't know how to finish it. But he feels the sob melt into his chest. Feels the knot in her loosen.

_Just let me take it_, he thinks. _Hold it for you. Carry it. Whatever it is._

"Daryl, I can't..." she says but he holds her tighter.

"Just let me," he repeats. "You don't need to do anything."

* * *

><p>After a while, he persuades her to rest. Pulls her weapon from her arms, untucks her knife. Settles them on the floor, wraps the poncho around her, sits back against the concrete wall. The floor's cold on his ass and the wall's a bit damp but she's circled between his knees and asleep against him almost immediately, so he just sits and listens to the noises above them become more faint. He half-expects Rick to come down and see what's up, but he doesn't. Nobody does. Of course they don't. They saw him when he first saw it was her. They know more about him than he'd like to admit.<p>

He doesn't know when he falls asleep. He can't quite remember it. He remembers holding her and listening to her slowing breaths and then the next thing he knows, he feels that tension again. That tension that is her. The poncho moving. Falling. And her hands feeling around, trying to push herself up, away from him.

Her hand on his thigh. And then...

Fuck.

He's hard and she's touching it and she startles. But she doesn't move her hand. He wishes he could fall into a grave, he's so embarrassed. He wasn't even dreaming about nothing sexy! He doesn't know what to do. Apologize? Pretend it's something else? Ignore it?

Her hand strokes up. Stops.

Well. Pretending's out.

He hauls in a deep breath. Her hand squeezes. Not too tight. Soft. But if he wasn't sure before, he is now: she knows what she's touching.

Then her hand moves away. Sudden, swift. He almost gets up and runs off himself. But then her hand is reaching up his neck, his face. Curving over his cheek. Her thumb slipping over his mouth. Like she's blind and trying to get his expression in the dark. It makes his dick even harder; the silence, the slow touching. He doesn't know if she's trying to keep from being detected by the others, or by him. If she's waiting for him to say something. He doesn't know where to start.

Her hand slides over his nose to the other side of his face, rushes up to his hair, pushing it out of eyes and brow. He feels her nudge closer; her tit against his shoulder. Of course that's her tit; nothing else it could be. He's still as a deer in lights; he doesn't want anything to distract her from touching him.

He leans against the wall; she leans against him. Now both tits against him. Tits. Breasts. He feels like he should be more respectful. Whatever you call them, they are soft and heavy, all at once, and he feels like the luckiest man in the world. She makes a sound, like a sigh, but not sad. And then she presses her mouth against his mouth and he reaches for her, grips her around her wrists, forearms, shoulders, waist, back. He can't stop himself any longer.

He swears she's smiling against his mouth. But then her tongue slips inside and she's lifting herself over him, sitting across him hips, and he's struggling to stop time. To slow himself down. Let it happen. _Just let it._

* * *

><p>He comes so quick the first time and he feels a little bad about it, but then he's ready to go again not long after. And they still have half their clothes on. She's in a heap on top of him, breathing against his collarbone, and he's running his hand over the little curves of her spine. Slow. Steady. Each little bump belonging to him. Counting them like minutes.<p>

Her tits against his skin; their shirts and her pants are the only thing they managed all the way off. She's still wearing her socks; his pants are pulled to his knees. Part of why he went off so quick; he was basically trapped under the slow slide of her wet cunt and it felt so good. So good.

She didn't wear panties, either. God. Thinking of discovering that makes his nuts jump. He slows his hand, reaches down toward her ass. Squeezes. He feels her tense. He lets go, his hand trailing back up. Counting the knobs of her spine again like a good boy. He notes each one, thinking that she's too skinny. He's gonna fatten her up; he'll go hunting first thing tomorrow. She's been on her own too long and that's over. No more.

He listens to her breathing and imagines them together. Long nights when he brings in meat and she makes a fire and they eat together and warm up together and he's not wondering anymore where she is or where he belongs. She might not see it yet, but he does. He wants this so bad it makes his teeth nearly itch with the desire to make it happen. To show her. He knows it's the right thing. He just doesn't know how to explain it to her. Not yet.

He imagines her stretched out naked before the fire she built and he imagines fucking and sucking and touching more of her than he can even imagine. He can see her reaching for him, her hear moaning. Feel himself lost in her. His dick prods at her hip and she squirms. Lifts up from him. Stands.

He worries for a minute she's mad. She's gonna bolt. But then she unhooks her bra and rolls off her socks. He can sense her naked in front of him more than he can see it. He thinks he can smell her cunt, wet for him. He feels like animal. He feels a little crazy too.

"Want to go again?" she asks. Her voice is clear, but quiet.

He sits up. "Yes, ma'am," he says.

"Unlace your boots, then."

* * *

><p>This time, she's not tolerating anything too quick. She's just as in charge as before, though, and he's glad; he's never been good at this. He's grateful it's almost completely dark, but then she switches on his flashlight and it lights up the outline of her, towering over him as she lays her smooth naked self over his body.<p>

She licks up from his knee to his balls, from his cock to his stomach, from one nipple to the other. Then his face. She runs a hand over herself and slips her fingers into his mouth and he can taste pussy. Her pussy. Tangy and salty. Jesus Christ.

There is nothing better than what she's doing. He knows she's in charge and he knows that he won't hurt her by accident this way. And he knows that not knowing what she'll do next is probably the best thing in the whole goddamn world. He shivers, his back cold against the bare floor, the flashlight beyond them haloing the curve of her back and she sits up on him. His hands go to her tits, automatic. She sighs that same good sigh and he knows he'll hold off for anything, just to hear that again and again.

Even as her hands work his dick. Even as she slides up on his hips, her pussy trailing wet on his thighs. Even as she fits the tip of him inside her and then waits, waits, waits for him to not be able to stand it.

Finally, he presses her down on him and that's when he groans the loudest, the most, her hand covering his mouth as she rides him. Unfair of her. But he keeps at it. Just letting her go, up and down, back and forth, all over him. He can hear the wet sound of it in the dark and that sigh. That beautiful sigh. She slips her fingers down to where they're connected and he's not sure what she wants. She wants him out? She's controlling his speed? He can't barely move, not that he wants to. He's never fucked without a condom and it's like seeing a movie in color instead of black in white. Funny to think that in the dark, but that's how it is.

Soon, he realizes she's getting herself off. A slow rhythm she plays against herself, against him inside her. He keeps his hands on her hips, wanting to be ready, not wanting to distract her again. Paying close attention. Letting her do it. Patience.

He thinks of a song when he was a teenager, with that same name: "Patience." One of those slow songs that hardcore bands did once in a while, just for a change-up. Girls were always wild about that kind of sappy song; him and Merle didn't have time for that shit, really. But "Patience" he remembered. The words were easy to remember and the tune wasn't sappy.

He keeps hearing the chorus - "Just a little patience" - as she slides over him, and her sigh turns to a kind of sob, and then he feels it, maybe before she does, everything tightening and squeezing until he's not sure he'll be able to breathe and then she goes still on the outside and frenzied on the inside and then he says her name, coming from the good shock of it all, coming from surprise that a woman could do that with her body. With his, too.

* * *

><p>It's not long after they've finished the second time when they hear footsteps.<p>

"Daryl? Carol?" It's Rick.

"You down here?" he says. His voice is low but he can hear the panic.

"Yeah," he says, before she can react. He tightens his arms around her so she won't bolt. He doesn't think she will - she's sleepy and still - but he can't risk it.

There's a moment, then Rick says all right, and his footsteps echo back up.

"Oh god," Carol mutters into his neck. He likes how her lips feel on his skin. Even if she's saying, "oh god" in a way that doesn't sound so good.

He sits up, wraps her in the poncho. Then, using the flashlight, he puts on his boxer shorts, collects up all their clothes. He lifts her off the floor and sets her gently on the table, next to his crossbow. Puts her weapons beside her, their clothes in a pile so they won't get dirtier than they already are.

"Gonna go get us some blankets," he says. "My pack. Want me to grab yours, too?"

She pulls the poncho tighter around her, bare legs swinging. Nods.

"You bolt, I'm coming after you," he says, pointing at her. "Barefoot, no shirt or pants. I swear it." He hands her the flashlight.

She smiles a little and he goes in for a kiss.

"Be right back."

"This doesn't solve everything, Daryl," she says.

He scratches a hand through his belly hair and shrugs.

"Solves just enough, I reckon," he says. Then he heads up the stairs, holding back the urge to whistle as he goes.


End file.
